Is this the way it's gotta be? (One Shot/Complete
Characters: Ace, One Shot
Setting: Cricket Bedroom
Time: Day 16
Summary: Sometimes the best and worst presents arrive when we are not expecting it.
Warnings: Ace's language warning is in FULL FORCE read at your own risk. Also TL;DR, nothing to see here, move along.
He was exhausted. Still. Each lingering, joint cracking ache making him feel closer to a hundred than the slim twenty one years he had managed to survive.
After sleeping a good bit of the day, he had realized that the weariness wasn’t going to go away and had forced himself out of bed to actually function.
Maybe even take a goddamned shower or something. Though that really took more effort than it was absolutely worth these days, and he had to be quick about it or he’d end up with ice all over his body.
Which was a pain in the goddamned ass.
He muttered to himself, rubbing his face and pulling open his drawer in the dresser. Notebooks were slowly taking over; he was slowly turning into Yukimi with all this crap. Donovan’s sketchbook alone took up a lot of space, even without adding to the equation the notebooks that both Lilia and Matalik had filled or the loose-leaf bits of this and that from the kids.
It was a good thing he didn’t own much in the way of clothes.
He was still half asleep as he reached into the drawer, fishing for a clean undershirt and boxers.
His knuckles brushed against something that shouldn’t have been there; a slightly softer, heavier weight fabric that didn’t belong to anything he owned.
He peered into the dark space, half expecting something to jump out at him. But it was only a small object, carefully wrapped in a piece of what looked like a curtain.
His first thought, of course, was that if someone had been in their room without permission Machi was going to kill them.
His second was curiosity; the most obvious way to give him something was to shove it in his drawer.
But who in the house would want to give him something? Sanji or Usopp would just find him, Yukimi and Machi *lived* here, and anyone else with the good sense the gods gave a snail would find him somewhere that wasn’t Machi’s den.
He rubbed at his eyes and lifted it carefully free of the drawer, sitting down to unfold the wrapping.
He paused, staring into the package, honestly baffled.
A ship?
Why was there a ship here?
It fit neatly in his palm, wood warm and smooth against his hand.
What in the world?
Who would leave a ship in his room? It was a neat toy, but why was it here…?
His thumb rasped against a mark in the wood and he turned it carefully, staring blankly at the intertwined snake and staff for a long moment, fingers lingering over the tiny name etched into the side.
He’d only seen it once, lurid red against the wall. But it was burned into his memories. His face tightened, forehead furrowing with a combination of guilt and regret and grief.
March’s mark. S.S. Acedia.
Something lodged painfully in his throat.
“Why, March…?” the words were soft, questioning, pained.
He shifted the tiny ship into a one handed grip, dipping his fingers back into the wrappings and feeling for the crackle of paper.
There was writing on the outside of the note, a simple ‘thank you’ in Lilia’s graceful handwriting. Completely without context, but full of emotion. Ace swallowed a bit, tucking the tiny ship against his body to open the note.
March’s handwriting lacked any of the flourishes his wife put into her’s. It was clear, but that was it. The note was short and to the point. Blunt like the man that had written it. "She's not seaworthy, but maybe the next one will be; hopefully the next one you see will be bigger and better still. Regardless though, a ship is a ship. Keep your eyes on the horizon."
It was signed with his full name.
The painful lump in his throat tightened, choking off anything he might have said.
He had spent the entire night dodging March, trying to avoid the danger the fire presented and trying to keep others from getting pulled into their exhausting game of tag. He still had the ring of bruised finger prints on his throat from where the other had grabbed him. One of the closest brushes with death he’d had so far, and it had been one of his friends that had done it. He’d spent the entire night feeling nothing but the twisted mindlessness from March. From any of the ghosts he’d encountered.
And that had hurt. Knowing that the masters of this damned house had choked down so hard that they couldn’t even think. Knowing that his friends were gone. Knowing that he was completely helpless to do anything to help them. Knowing that if given half a chance, one of the people he was closest to would snap his neck.
The little chuckle that escaped, appreciation of both the gallows humor and the unspoken not-promise implicit in both note and the tiny ship soon turned into borderline hysterical laughter, both items pressed against his chest like a mad-man with a teddy-bear.
You idiot. Why didn’t you give it to me so I could be properly grateful? Why like this? So I would remember? To give me something after the hells spawn that was last night? Did you know? Son of a bitch, why like this?
He was glad Yukimi and Machi weren’t in the room, he was sure he looked mad.
His cheeks were wet, but he had no memory of crying. Only he must have started at some point, because he was now.
He hadn’t had a chance when night fell to grieve. He hadn’t given himself time to grieve in any real, healthy way for Fletcher. It had all been tucked away and slowly building up until there was no way to escape it.
His friends were gone. Morning had come and gone with nothing.
His friends were gone.
All he had to remember them by were tiny tangible items, a hundred and one precious memories and promises hanging around his neck like a bloody choke chain tied to an anchor.
He leaned forward, forehead pressing against the wood of the dresser. The moan wasn’t really human, the deep twisted knot of grief finally unraveling, breaking free of the restraints he’d wrapped around it to keep it out of the way while he dealt with everything else.
They were gone and there was nothing he could do, he couldn’t even go down and rap on the Phantasm’s door, begging for their return.
It wouldn’t happen.
“This doesn’t count, March. It doesn’t count, alright? You’re not going to dodge your promise by making a little toy. Just not going to happen. We’re going to sail together someday, you and I and Rose and Lilia and everyone else trapped in this gods forsaken hellhole. I swear it. If I have to break every law of the universe to pull it off, I swear it. I don’t care how many times you kill me, or what I have to do. I will fucking make sure.” The words were soft, muffled by the wood, fingernails biting four perfect crescents into his free hand. The blood smeared against the floor: he didn't care. He cared too damn much.
But he never broke his promises.
One last broken whisper, shoulders shaking with rage or grief, muffled into the fabric and the little wooden ship. “I swear it.”
Setting: Cricket Bedroom
Time: Day 16
Summary: Sometimes the best and worst presents arrive when we are not expecting it.
Warnings: Ace's language warning is in FULL FORCE read at your own risk. Also TL;DR, nothing to see here, move along.
He was exhausted. Still. Each lingering, joint cracking ache making him feel closer to a hundred than the slim twenty one years he had managed to survive.
After sleeping a good bit of the day, he had realized that the weariness wasn’t going to go away and had forced himself out of bed to actually function.
Maybe even take a goddamned shower or something. Though that really took more effort than it was absolutely worth these days, and he had to be quick about it or he’d end up with ice all over his body.
Which was a pain in the goddamned ass.
He muttered to himself, rubbing his face and pulling open his drawer in the dresser. Notebooks were slowly taking over; he was slowly turning into Yukimi with all this crap. Donovan’s sketchbook alone took up a lot of space, even without adding to the equation the notebooks that both Lilia and Matalik had filled or the loose-leaf bits of this and that from the kids.
It was a good thing he didn’t own much in the way of clothes.
He was still half asleep as he reached into the drawer, fishing for a clean undershirt and boxers.
His knuckles brushed against something that shouldn’t have been there; a slightly softer, heavier weight fabric that didn’t belong to anything he owned.
He peered into the dark space, half expecting something to jump out at him. But it was only a small object, carefully wrapped in a piece of what looked like a curtain.
His first thought, of course, was that if someone had been in their room without permission Machi was going to kill them.
His second was curiosity; the most obvious way to give him something was to shove it in his drawer.
But who in the house would want to give him something? Sanji or Usopp would just find him, Yukimi and Machi *lived* here, and anyone else with the good sense the gods gave a snail would find him somewhere that wasn’t Machi’s den.
He rubbed at his eyes and lifted it carefully free of the drawer, sitting down to unfold the wrapping.
He paused, staring into the package, honestly baffled.
A ship?
Why was there a ship here?
It fit neatly in his palm, wood warm and smooth against his hand.
What in the world?
Who would leave a ship in his room? It was a neat toy, but why was it here…?
His thumb rasped against a mark in the wood and he turned it carefully, staring blankly at the intertwined snake and staff for a long moment, fingers lingering over the tiny name etched into the side.
He’d only seen it once, lurid red against the wall. But it was burned into his memories. His face tightened, forehead furrowing with a combination of guilt and regret and grief.
March’s mark. S.S. Acedia.
Something lodged painfully in his throat.
“Why, March…?” the words were soft, questioning, pained.
He shifted the tiny ship into a one handed grip, dipping his fingers back into the wrappings and feeling for the crackle of paper.
There was writing on the outside of the note, a simple ‘thank you’ in Lilia’s graceful handwriting. Completely without context, but full of emotion. Ace swallowed a bit, tucking the tiny ship against his body to open the note.
March’s handwriting lacked any of the flourishes his wife put into her’s. It was clear, but that was it. The note was short and to the point. Blunt like the man that had written it. "She's not seaworthy, but maybe the next one will be; hopefully the next one you see will be bigger and better still. Regardless though, a ship is a ship. Keep your eyes on the horizon."
It was signed with his full name.
The painful lump in his throat tightened, choking off anything he might have said.
He had spent the entire night dodging March, trying to avoid the danger the fire presented and trying to keep others from getting pulled into their exhausting game of tag. He still had the ring of bruised finger prints on his throat from where the other had grabbed him. One of the closest brushes with death he’d had so far, and it had been one of his friends that had done it. He’d spent the entire night feeling nothing but the twisted mindlessness from March. From any of the ghosts he’d encountered.
And that had hurt. Knowing that the masters of this damned house had choked down so hard that they couldn’t even think. Knowing that his friends were gone. Knowing that he was completely helpless to do anything to help them. Knowing that if given half a chance, one of the people he was closest to would snap his neck.
The little chuckle that escaped, appreciation of both the gallows humor and the unspoken not-promise implicit in both note and the tiny ship soon turned into borderline hysterical laughter, both items pressed against his chest like a mad-man with a teddy-bear.
You idiot. Why didn’t you give it to me so I could be properly grateful? Why like this? So I would remember? To give me something after the hells spawn that was last night? Did you know? Son of a bitch, why like this?
He was glad Yukimi and Machi weren’t in the room, he was sure he looked mad.
His cheeks were wet, but he had no memory of crying. Only he must have started at some point, because he was now.
He hadn’t had a chance when night fell to grieve. He hadn’t given himself time to grieve in any real, healthy way for Fletcher. It had all been tucked away and slowly building up until there was no way to escape it.
His friends were gone. Morning had come and gone with nothing.
His friends were gone.
All he had to remember them by were tiny tangible items, a hundred and one precious memories and promises hanging around his neck like a bloody choke chain tied to an anchor.
He leaned forward, forehead pressing against the wood of the dresser. The moan wasn’t really human, the deep twisted knot of grief finally unraveling, breaking free of the restraints he’d wrapped around it to keep it out of the way while he dealt with everything else.
They were gone and there was nothing he could do, he couldn’t even go down and rap on the Phantasm’s door, begging for their return.
It wouldn’t happen.
“This doesn’t count, March. It doesn’t count, alright? You’re not going to dodge your promise by making a little toy. Just not going to happen. We’re going to sail together someday, you and I and Rose and Lilia and everyone else trapped in this gods forsaken hellhole. I swear it. If I have to break every law of the universe to pull it off, I swear it. I don’t care how many times you kill me, or what I have to do. I will fucking make sure.” The words were soft, muffled by the wood, fingernails biting four perfect crescents into his free hand. The blood smeared against the floor: he didn't care. He cared too damn much.
But he never broke his promises.
One last broken whisper, shoulders shaking with rage or grief, muffled into the fabric and the little wooden ship. “I swear it.”